


Trophy

by hauntedpoem



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU Ramsay, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mentions of Murder, Oral Sex, Out of Character Ramsay, Personality Disorders, Psychological issues, creepy Ramsay, deceptively innocent Ramsay, emotionally manipulative Ramsay, guilt tripping Ramsay, identity crisis Theon, liberal use of i love yous, medieval names, psycho Ramsay, read the tags before complaining, rock star Asha, starved Theon, sweet but crazy Ramsay, teenage Ramsay, top Theon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:16:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2042268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks innocent enough, although troubled and a little bit out of place. His face sets in hard lines, a square jaw, a broad forehead, tightly pursed lips. His eyes are of an icy blue color, a frozen hell. He’s interesting to look at, Theon has to admit. He’s like a porcelain doll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trophy

**Author's Note:**

> Take the TAGS seriously. This is an AU.  
> -chnaged the title, it sounded boring-  
> ENJOY!

Perhaps it’s the best thing he can do, he muses. He’s fed up with the Starks, so drinking himself into a stupor seems like a good option to pass the night. This way, it is possible to forget about Robb and his perfect family for a while, to forget that he’s not wanted by the Greyjoys either, to forget that even the women he sleeps with are just looking at him for validation and nothing more.

Tonight, he doesn’t even care care if he falls asleep and finds his death. He wants more, he wants to drink and smoke and laugh like an idiot and fuck, if possible. He eyes the blonde with the dragon tattoo up and down but she smirks at him teasingly and just goes back to her table, placing her drink on the glassy surface with a loud thud. Her friends eye him suspiciously but she just laughs so they ignore him.

He’s inoffensive and too much of a coward to go and chat her up. She’s beautiful, like a foreign thing landed in such a sad and dreary place. His mind drifts to the women in his life, to their victories, to their little disappointments. 

He is lonely. He feels lonely to the core.

While Asha is having the time of her life touring the country all summer, making bitches out of the other rock bands, he's still here, miserable. She never asked Theon to come with her. She is his sister but they are worlds apart and he feels too

lonely  and too cowardly to ask her for advice.

He can't talk to the Starks. That's out of the question. They are actually happy that he’s gone, that he doesn’t lurk around the house anymore. Jon Snow is happy he’s gone, as if all of his wishes came true when he carried his stuff back to the car. Theon remembers how he laughed in his face as he held his red haired girlfriend.

He spots Kyra, the barmaid and beckons to her. She lights up and waves at him, balancing a tray on her left hand. She’s sexy in her miniskirt and black apron and Theon is literally drooling as she walks him by with a promise.

She’ll do for the night, he thinks.

He orders one glass of vodka and gulps it down, scanning his surroundings one more time. On a couch, a bunch of teens are distributing drugs over the table. They’re so obvious that Theon starts laughing as one of them drops some pills and starts panicking.

One guy in particular stands out, mostly because he’s out of place in a club like this. He’s definitely not a regular, moves awkwardly and looks too neat for his own good. Who the hell wears a perfectly ironed shirt in a club? He can’t even hold his alcohol, because Theon recognizes the signs on his face. He flushes slightly and just holds the bottle of Corona defensively in front of him while futilely tries to make conversation with the other guys on at the table. Theon has the feeling he’s going to be ignored or made fun of because the other teens look at him as if he’s scum. They too, look like scum to Theon. Filthy rich scum, though.

Gods, even his laugh is awkward as he tries to mask his embarrassment. Not even his smart-ass undercut is there to save him because perfect hair can’t make up for being a loser in social situations. Theon can’t take his eyes off him. He feels too sorry for the boy but at the same time he’s fascinated by how obstinate he is. He doesn’t get it… he completely misses the cue and just embarrasses himself any further.

When he turns, with a bruised ego and half of the bottle spilled on his shirt, they make the strangest eyes contact. His eyes are so pale, like two glaciers melting in his sockets. They’re watery and Theon thinks he’s about to cry but tries very hard not to let it show. He’s stiff as a plank, king of awkwardness. Theon can’t squeeze more pity for the guy… he practically asked for it.

“Come on, Dom, leave the little shit to babysit himself!” A girl shouts from the back, draping her arm around the one called “Dom” and leering at the awkward guy suggestively.

“You shit, get out of my sight!”

“Chrestan,Lanner, leave him… Snow’s just going to cry in a corner, the little shit,” says Dom to  the guys that now settle for laughing sadistically at Snow.

Theon watches in fascination as the scene unravels before him. He knows he stares and so do some people at the bar, lackadaisically turning their heads as the miffed guy tries to walk away, his trousers splotched with beer. It’s shameful and he looks so stupid in his mod inspired clothes and when someone hoots and cheers, managing to splash a glass of cocktail on the guy’s sneakers, even the barman lets out a cruel snicker. Theon can’t help but sigh, hiding his mouth with the glass and gulping thirstily. It’s his way of coping with his own bitter memories.

The boy looks at him with a hurt expression and something breaks in his heart, something innocent and pure. The thoughts of his own chagrin come back to life, so all that he is capable of doing is drink and then drink some more. Robb’s getting married. That’s a great reason to pass out over alcohol.

Kyra approaches him while struggling to fit the money into her tiny pockets. She smiles seductively and turns her head towards the hallway leading to the bathroom. She leaves the tray and the little notebook on the counter and heads to the dimly lit hallway. He knows that she wants him. It’s so obvious.

Robb’s getting married. Screw him. Screw Kyra. Screw everyone. Kyra’s hips move deliciously as she struts in her skimpy clothes. How many tips is she going to miss because of him?  Theon’s mind wanders to her long legs and those vinyl fuck-me-boots and he realizes he doesn’t actually care. Because Robb’s getting married to Jeyne fucking Westerling and he’s the last to find out. As usual.

He wants to fuck the night away and imagine that it is Jeyne Westerling herself that’s going to moan around his cock, not Kyra from the bar. He should have fucked Jeyne when he had the chance; she behaved half of the time like a bitch in heat around Theon. He hopes that the next time Robb invites him to his house, it’s to announce his divorce.

Kyra is a hot chick, though. The bulge is evident in his grey faded jeans. That’s not a problem, because no one’s concerned with him. No one’s going to stop him.

He pays and makes sure to leave a considerable tip, then goes straight to the restroom. Huge mirrors on white tiles greet him with a tired reflection, a shell of his former self; Theon's got dark circles under the eyes and his bleached hair looks horribly messy, his curls all but glamorous. If he tries harder, he could pass for heroin chic. In the mirror, his face is handsome but gaunt. The stormy-blue eyes display an inner misery that Theon would give anything to see gone and forgotten. He thinks of Kyra’s tits flailing up and down, left to right as he pounds into her. Like that time when he fucked her on the car hood. She screamed and kicked and then she just moaned and pleaded for him to fuck her harder.  His leather boots echo on the cold white surface of the floor. It's a lonely sound.

She’s in the last stall, the biggest one and she peeks at him with a cheeky smile on her face.

Nice, very nice… he mutters to himself.

“I’ve been waiting for you, big boy” she purrs, her interest peaking.

Theon’s sick of her little mocking pout and her little dainty gestures. It’s all an act. She always asks nicely for his cock. The same goes for when she asks nicely for some cash… because Kyra loves her cocaine as much as she loves getting fucked while high and delirious. It’s her way of asking for a big, fat tip from him.

There’s noise coming from the cubicle next to them and Kyra tries not to laugh as she snorts some lines from her purse mirror. He watches as she commences the ritual. He waits silently for them to be left alone in the restroom, but Kyra takes his hand and places it between her thighs.

She’s burning hot and soaking wet…

Good, she’s going to be up for it.

“I can’t stay for long,” she announces peevishly, knowing very well that Theon has difficulty getting over these minor annoyances. He likes to have her for longer than others do.

She tries sliding down her panties but Theon’s mean streak resurfaces as he finds out that there’s no more cocaine for him – greedy little slut, he thinks- and just pulls her down on her knees until she gets the idea. Her own fingers should suffice for her insatiable wet cunt, because Theon feels cheated and sad and he hates sadness more than anything.

He hates Robb tonight and he’s already having in mind how to get between his future-wife’s legs. It’s all about getting his revenge…

Kyra doesn’t waste time, she just gets down to business and for a while it’s all pink clouds and roses as he lets out a guttural moan because her mouth is so soft, so wet, so skilled. Of course he can hear footsteps. Of course he doesn’t care, but Kyra tenses and stops looking dumbly behind her, even though the door is closed. He takes her by the ponytail and just pushes into her mouth, his cock twitching over and over with sharp, unadulterated bliss. He’s already dripping and he likes to see her chin wet with his juices, likes to see her all frustrated to get into a better position to finger her clit, because he really want to make her pay for not thinking of his needs as well as she snorted all that coke from before.

She moans and she struggles and it makes her gag involuntarily, so Theon lets go of her hair and simply moves his hips languidly. This seems to suit her just fine, because she manages to get the necessary friction and she’s moaning an agonizing orgasm, the sound vibrating through him, piercing him, propelling him further and further away from propriety and consciousness.

Then her phone beeps and Kyra frowns, with his cock still in her mouth and somehow manages to get it out of her pocket and see the caller ID. Theon’s vision is hazy and he can’t tell whether he’s annoyed or aroused. He wakes up only when her drenched hotness leaves his cock and she pulls herself in a standing position. She straightens her clothes and tugs on the elastic band of her knickers. Her look is apologetic but she still smiles at him naughtily.

“Gotta go, the boss called for me…”

He tugs roughly at her shoulder, pleadingly but she wrenches her arm from his clutch.

“You’re hurting me, let go!”

And he does, because he knows what hurt feels like. She closes the door behind her, letting out a surprised gasp. He pulls the toilet seat down and plops there carelessly with his cock still straining and dripping. Carding a hand through his messy dried out curls, he listens attentively to the water splashing the water basin as Kyra probably gurgles and spits the taste of him down the drain.

Then the drier is on, the noise cancelling his empty thoughts of loneliness and desire. His cock is just a tool- he reasons as he looks down between his legs at the treacherous thing that won’t stop his straining and twitching.

He finishes himself off as he thinks of Kyra blowing him skilfully instead of simply drying her hands. That noise drives him mad and pushes his frustration further into a reckless place that oversteps the limits of decency. He takes his purplish cock in his hand and gives it a few heartless tugs. He comes with an anguished moan on his lips. The wall is a mess. He doesn't care, though.

 

~~~

Theon feels tired and pushes the door open. It hits the wall with a thud and to his surprise, it’s not Kyra he sees drying her hands, but that sorry-ass dude from before, who’s fiddling with his navy blue shirt in an attempt to get the stains out.

He looks owlishly at Theon and then down at his limp cock, turning as fast as possible in the opposite direction because Theon defies all laws of respectability with his depraved presence and can’t seem to stop laughing at how ridiculous the whole situation turned out to be. He tucks it with difficulty into his jeans and huffs in annoyance as the sensitive appendage tenses and rubs on the fabric. He wants to scare and scar the guy permanently because he has the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Instead, the guy just stays there, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jacket.

“You can turn around, I’m not wanking to creepy cunts like you,” Theon retorts aggressively, admitting to himself that he feels slightly affronted by the other’s frigid behavior.

He stands with his legs parted – it’s hard to sit up properly when you resign to rough masturbation, and looks at the back of the other’s head in displeasure.

He turns to face Theon, expression unreadable. He looks embarrassed, ill at ease, flushed and unusual for a guy. He’s the most interesting thing Theon’s seen in a while besides a redhead’s pierced cunt, and that has to mean something.

He’s just a kid with big icy eyes that stare at him as if he’s been slapped; he’s well-built but not very tall. The boy is fortunately past the wiry, gangly stage of adolescence and his face is white like marble. Theon is captivated by the eyes though; they’re wet with unspoken emotion and they unsettle him. The kid frowns at him, then gulps, his hands rising to his face to swat a non-existent strand of hair from his eyes. He’s like one of those rare butterflies pinned on display for Theon to gawk at, so fresh, so young and stupid. Theon could swear the kid wears a uniform, that’s how out of place he looks. His mouth is a straight, sour line. He’s a sad little thing that would curl inwards and die if Theon were to start and mock him for how gauche he looks.

He has difficulty keeping his eyes on Theon’s face, though. Theon notices it and it impacts him with the knowledge that he probably scarred the kid for life.

“How the hell did you get in here, anyway? Fake ID?”

The teen just snaps back to reality as if he took a trip to a faraway land to escape Theon’s piercing eyes.

“I’m not a cunt,” he mutters unexpectedly and Theon, instead of flipping at him just smiles at the candid display. He almost forgot about that remark.

He looks innocent enough, although troubled and a little bit out of place. His face sets in hard lines, a square jaw, a broad forehead, tightly pursed lips. His eyes are of an icy blue color, a frozen hell. He’s interesting to look at, Theon has to admit. He’s like a porcelain doll.

He smiles as he watches the teen shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. The white rubber of his sneakers is stained green. A sick green stain. He feels sorry for him, yet he can’t comfort him in any way.

“…and I’m not creepy,” he finishes, frowning self-righteously at Theon, his huge, watery eyes accusatory and so fixated on him that Theon can’t help but shiver. His cock is still uncomfortable in the tight ripped jeans he’s wearing and Theon palms it, expecting a display of outrage from the teen, but he keeps ogling his face obstinately.

There’s hurt in his voice and Theon at first brushes it away, unaffectedly, but there’s something croaky and so raw that he cannot let it slip away. The kid straightens his short bangs on his forehead. The gesture is neat but displays nervousness, insecurity, enough for Theon to pounce further.

This time, he cuts with kind words through his defenses.

“No, you’re not a cunt,” it’s difficult to say that and mean it, but Theon reckons it must be the truth, because the kid looks decent and polite enough to him. “You’re still creepy, though… Drying yourself in the bathroom like this, snooping around on other people’s sex lives, listening in to my private conversation…”

“I wasn’t listening in! And you weren’t talking about anything, for the matter!”

“And how would you know that? You've been lurking around like a weirdo?”

He’s undeniably sensitive to insults because his face contorts in an ugly scowl.

“I was cleaning up. You saw what happened to me!”

It’s Theon’s Turn to scowl, because the kid is a proud and prickly thing, something like a hedgehog. He wouldn’t admit that his pride was injured, not to Theon, especially since he dared to laugh at his misery. He approaches a sink and opens the water. His face feels even colder now, as if he’s lost the ability to blush. As he looks in the mirror, he’s sure he looks unhinged and bony, typical heroin chic look, reeking of sexual frustration minus the drugs running through his veins.

“I’m sorry for earlier… No one deserves that, kiddo.” He eyes the teen’s reflection in the mirror and gives him a meaningful look. He sees him soften a bit.

“Want me to take care of those thugs?”

He doesn’t know why he offers, why he says it in the first place. He instantly regrets it but the teen just shook his head muttering a very strained “No”.

“Domeric’s my br... my half-brother. Jasper Redfort and his brothers are his friends. They’ll get revenge if you do something about it.”

To Theon, he looked just like a victim, head bowed, shoulders hunched, and posture frigid. The idea that the kid could be someone with whom he’ll kill his misery over a joint, burns into him.

“What’s your name? Snow?”

The kid frowns and gives him a heated look with those pale eyes of him.

“My name is Ramsay.” His thin mouth settles into a serious pout and his eyes look at Theon insistently.

“Ramsay Snow? What? Are you adopted or something? I know a bastard named Snow, though… Are you an illegitimate child?”

“My father’s name is Bolton. Don’t call me Snow!” Ramsay seemed obviously offended by his remark.

Theon just smirks because the kid looks cute when he’s angry.

“What’s your name, then?”

He resumes cleaning and drying his face and turns to face Ramsay, who fiddles with the hem of his half wet-half crumpled shirt, avoiding his eyes.

Theon takes his sweet time before he answers. “I’m Theon Greyjoy. Wanna smoke a joint with me?” he offers innocently, scanning the teen’s face.

“I don’t do drugs…”

“No, of course you don't... but do you want to get out of here or you’d rather go back to your asshole of a _half-brother_ and sleep in a cubicle? They’re quite dirty. And cramped.”

“You should know,” the kid replies feigning disinterest which makes Theon snigger some more. Ramsay follows him out, not looking back.

He opens the car for Ramsay to get in and is surprised at how trusting he behaves. He pulls the handbrake and shifts the gear winking playfully at the teen.

“Catch!”

It’s a small plastic envelope he takes from the glove compartment, half-full with minced weed. He gives him several cigarette-thin pieces of paper and demands him to roll them up. He wants to get high and drunk and this kid’s face doesn’t remind him of Robb at all, of Robb and his promises.

Ramsay looks at the stuff as if he’s seen it for the first time. He hesitates for a few seconds until Theon starts the engine and music starts blaring from the speakers. The music is some sort of melodic hard rock with strong female vocals.

“That’s my sister’s band,” Theon mutters with a hint of pride.

“I know the band,” the kid replies tersely. “It’s my brother’s favorite.”

“Your brother’s a dickhead but my sister… she just rocks, man!” Theon started driving and changing the speed to the second, then soon after, to the third. Somehow, he gives the idea that he’s not the kind that respects rules in traffic. Ramsay smiles imperceptibly, but Theon catches it. He grins oafishly at the other’s delight.

The car, a black Jeep Cherokee, moves smoothly through the empty streets fast, then slower, then fast again, depending on the curves of their trajectory. Ramsay handles the paper and manages to roll the joints half decently. Fingers move inexpertly as they get the hang of it. Theon speeds again and they’re on the outskirts already. He fumbles for his Iphone and checks the maps hurriedly.

“Where are we going?” There’s a hint of fear in his voice and Theon can’t hear over Asha’s screaming voice coming from the speakers. He turns the volume down and finally manages to spill some decent answer.

“My place.”

“You live on the coast?” Ramsay asks incredulously as if Theon’s intentions aren’t quite honourable, seeing how he used him to roll joints and watch for speeding police cars in the wing mirror.

“Why, you don’t like the sea?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been there.” He’s serious and his tone's clipped, so Theon doesn’t jump up in astonishment at his answer.

“What? You’re not from around here?”

“My father lives at the Dreadfort. I used to live next to the Weeping Water, before he came and took me with him.”

“The Weeping Water?”

“Orphanage.”

Theon speaks no more. The look on Ramsay’s face is enough to tell him that the  orphanage subject is a sore one. He looks like a well off kid, though so he can’t help but ask again.

“So… you live with your father?”

“Not really… I had to move next to my high school. Dreadfort’s very far away from school.”

“You live alone?”

“Yes. Sometimes Domeric pays me a visit, sometimes it’s father who comes…”

Theon could swear he detected a shudder pass through Ramsay.

The teen says the words as detached as possible, his eyes far away, looking through the window as the sun sets, dipped in red and purple. His hands play distractedly with the safety belt.

Theon curiously peers at him. His eyes settle on his well-defined frame, they search for pale eyes circled by dark, glacial navy blue. They’re searching for something far away.

He stops the car when they reach the coast. From up there, the sea is visible in all its might, angry waves break on the rocks and sweep the shore clean. It’s getting dark and there’s no moon on the jet black sky.

“This is where I live,” Theon gestures to the sturdy wooden construction. There’s sand and dry grass everywhere. The place looks deserted and all that you can hear are the waves crashing rhythmically on the rocks and several seagulls crying in the distance. The air is cold and salty. Near the shore there are heaps and heaps of seaweed and driftwood.

“Why did you bring me here?” It’s Ramsay who speaks first, reluctantly to leave the passenger side of the car.

Theon fumbles with something on the roof frame. It’s dark, but Ramsay distinguishes a long bow case.

“You shoot or something?”

“Yeah…” He replies unthinkingly, placing the joint between his lips and lighting it up. “I shoot in competitions sometimes. I am quite good at archery.” Theon’s saying it without the slightest hint of pride and it changes something in the way the teen looks at him. ”My friend… though… he…” He can’t say the words but Ramsay looks at him expectantly, intently on his moving mouth.

“My friend thinks it’s stupid. I once shot at someone that threatened his brother. He got mad, thought I could have hurt the kid but I didn’t… so… yeah… it’s something he hates seeing me do.”

He pulls a blanket from the trunk and places it neatly on the hood.

Ramsay’s eyes light up, catching a glimpse of Theon’s nervousness.

“I think your friend is stupid. Archery seems pretty cool to me. I wish I'd learn something like that, to defend myself…”

Theon gulps at the mention of Robb being a stupid friend. He grins at the kid with his usual cocky, self-assured smile.

“Maybe I’ll teach you one day.”

“Maybe.”

He looks cute fidgeting like that and Theon wants to touch his hair badly. It’s somehow too neat for his own liking.

“Come on, the stars are visible from here.”

Ramsay looks at him guardedly but gets on the hood in a somewhat strained position. Theon is splayed there like a starfish, dressed in his grey T-shirt and ripped jeans, the leather jacket tucked under his head. He smells of leather and weed. Ramsay scrunches his nose. He’s never smelled something like that before. They stay like that for what seems like hours, staring into the infinite summer sky.

“Come on, give it a try… don’t die a virgin…” He hands him the joint but Ramsay just stares at it before he finally takes it. It’s soft and will die out soon if he doesn’t puff from it.

He takes it to his lips warily and inhales. He coughs. He feels like suffocating.

“Is this your memorable first time?”

Ramsay kind of wants to stop there, make it the first and last time he’s placed a cigarette or a joint between his lips. He looks shamefaced, embarrassed, red cheeks and all, even on a dark night such as that.

“Look at me,” says Theon mirthfully. “You have to let it into your lungs. Allow it to travel and fill you up.”

Ramsay tries again but it’s somehow worse. His coughing fit makes him nauseous.

“Dammit! I should have brought a water pipe. It’s always easier…”

He’s got a mind of his own and he leaves Ramsay on the hood, frozen awkwardly into an uncomfortable position. He never thought that the end of July could be so cold. The wind makes him shiver.

“Let’s get inside!”

Ramsay follows him like a lost puppy and his huge eyes take in the nicely decorated hallway. Everything reminds him of those nautical-inspired decorations from his step-mother’s magazines, only that Theon’s walls seem adorned with a huge ship wheel and colorful buoys. The wheel is an old thing that seems to have been practically pulled from a deck.

It smells of wood and oil and rope and is messy enough to make Ramsay wonder whether he should take off his shoes or not. Theon just takes off his jacket and wanders through the hallway.

He doesn’t take them off, either.

Instead of following Theon, he decides to explore the walls. They are full of trinkets and photos. There’s a family picture and Theon looks nothing like the others. They all have either dark or red hair and the same deign expression on their faces. Next to it there’s a photo of Theon with long, dark hair and a woman in her twenties. She’s Asha Greyjoy from the Iron Islands, the hard rock band that Dom likes so much. He barely listened to her until Theon played her album in the car. They are so alike, he notices… Somehow, Theon looks very different with blond hair; he looks childlike, more approachable.

“Are you going to stare at that all night?” Theon catches up to him and tugs him by the shirt. “Take this!”

The couch is comfortable and so warm that Ramsay thinks he’s going to melt right there surrounded by a dozen of turquoise small pillows. Theon lost his T-shirt somewhere between the fifth puff and the seventh and Ramsay stares in fascination at the tattoos adorning his ribcage, torso and his back. Stretching to his ribs on the left side there’s a huge squid attacking a ship. The struggling ship’s up to his shoulder, surrounded by angry waves that remind him of a Japanese painting. It’s very detailed and artful and it covers a great expanse of Theon’s golden skin.He stares in awe as Theon stretches revealing more dark designs such as boating knots on his upper arm and several types of nautical stars in red and black. Down on his navel, there’s something written in dark ink but it’s still covered by the jeans so Ramsay can’t say for sure what it is.

“You’re staring,” Comes the obvious comment from Theon, his eyes turning to a foggy sea-blue in the candlelight and his smiling face becoming serious all of a sudden. He’s staring back at the boy named Ramsay, so weird with his neat haircut and his pale, owlish eyes.

“You too look very special, you should know,” Theon says out of inspiration and puts the pipe back on the table. The compliment doesn’t seem to reach Ramsay, though.

Ramsay seems ill at ease - his neck is full of blotchy red stains and his pale forehead looks wet with perspiration. He smells foreign, like a basket of dried wheat left in the rain and then brought back inside. He gets high with each inhale, though.

Theon smirks at how much of a lightweight the boy is. He gets closer as to tuck a pillow under his head, but the boy grasps at his arms and his breathing feels heavy as he exhales in shivery bouts on Theon’s cheek. It’s hot and wet and smells of honey.

Something coils deep in Theon’s belly as he sits there, propped on his arms over Ramsay’s body. He can feel the heat emanating from his crotch, they are that close to each other. He manages a look in between them only to realize he’s been hard for a while. Ramsay seems to have noticed it as well and he looks at him peculiarly. His lips are parted and Theon can see his white, even teeth. There’s a look of wonder in his eyes. It’s all too unexpected.

 He touches his face and it’s so smooth. His lashes are so long and dark and frame his eyes perfectly. He looks very special, very different from anything Theon has ever touched, so he takes the boy’s silence as an encouragement. He doesn’t make a sound as Theon starts unbuttoning the navy shirt. It’s a very stubborn button and Theon shifts uneasily to avoid crushing Ramsay with his weight. The balance is precarious as he manages to undo several buttons, all the while Ramsay’s hands grip into his arms, controlling the angle of their bodies. It’s a stark and heavy contrast between the shades of their skin; Ramsay’s pale and looks frozen in his alabaster skin while Theon is golden yet fair. Ramsay’s cold and rigid whereas he is warm and flexible. He looks apprehensively at Theon as his fingers card through his short and luscious hair, travelling down to his neck, then to his chest. His breath hitches as Theon’s hand sneaks under his shirt. It’s a smart move, because Ramsay becomes as compliant as putty and closes his eyes.

He exhales a shaky breath, making Theon chuckle. It’s strange. This feels so right, so good, and Ramsay relaxes spreading some more in front of Theon who takes advantage and tugs keenly at his shirt only to reveal a white tank top that fits his wide shoulders perfectly. Ramsay looks quite athletic for a high school kid, to Theon’s surprise. He opens his legs invitingly and Theon assumes it’s an instinctive gesture because Ramsay seems to be functioning on autopilot, that’s how oblivious he is. Then and there, Theon decides to attack his neck with kisses because it looks so soft and welcoming, the pale exquisite skin translucent in the weak light. It seems unfair that Ramsay still gets to keep his tank-top on while Theon wants to see more, more of the nacreous flesh that’s so pliable into his hands.

Hurriedly, he turns on the lamp, harsh on their unadjusted eyes and violently clashing with their bodies. Theon thinks he sees spots every time he closes his eyes and Ramsay’s skin becomes a blotched shroud that loses all contours. There are violet spots and dark lines and so many patterns that Theon feels confused for a while, bringing to an end his ministrations and waiting for his sight to adjust properly. He knows he grins with his entire mouth. It’s a heavenly feeling, especially since he doesn’t know how exactly they got in this state of affairs.

His hands travel appreciatively on the silvery planes of Ramsay’s chest and grip his hands to pull them over his head. He likes the uncertain compliance of Ramsay, who boyishly and stubbornly seems to be fighting back any trail of pleasure. His face seems set in stone, all hard lines and squares and huge eyes. He grips harder, punishingly at the taut skin and muscle. The boy squirms uncomfortably, trying to escape his scrutiny.

He makes a nervous, annoyed sound, like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. Only then, does Theon realize what the spots and blotches are. They don’t embellish his skin. They aren’t just  optical illusions… they mar its perfection. And they hurt, judging by Ramsay’s expression of fake bravery.

“Don’t you dare hide yourself!”

There are large finger marks that ruined the skin, purple and blue in color. Big, rough marks spread in a pattern of violence and mercilessness. The more recent bruises hide the green-yellow ones.

“Did someone hurt you?”

Ramsay looks obstinately in the opposite direction, his eyes and jaw set firmly. Theon knows he’s not going to get a single word out of his mouth.

“Someone did hurt you. They grabbed you, they hit you…” Theon feels exhausted and frustrated all of a sudden. “Listen, keeping silent about this isn't going to help your situation. You either say something or I will assume whatever I want. Just tell me…all right?”

His appetite is gone. Instead, he feels sick. He assumes that Ramsay doesn’t feel very good either. His high is gone, leaving him a mess on Theon’s couch. Ramsay’s stubborn and doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch… he just sits there like a statue, piercing holes into the wallpaper with his eyes. Theon stretches and pulls him comfortably into his arms. He feels like a big toy-bear. A polar bear. He’s cute with his serious haircut and his nose scrunching into Theon’s chest. It feels nice and he drags him to his bedroom, Theon walking with drunken steps and exalted movements, Ramsay settling like a block of ice into his arms.

He spoons Ramsay carefully, a hand on his waist and another on his chest. He didn’t even kiss him properly and the boy’s already surly and upset. He pecks him on the back of his neck, sniffing at his hair. He smells nice, of hay and dried flowers. Because Ramsay decided not to move a finger, Theon’s kisses grow bolder, reaching over to the pulse point on his neck, knowing very well that this should make the boy twitch and shudder in his arms.

His erection tents painfully in his rigid jeans. Only later does he realize that he’d been shamelessly rutting into Ramsay’s backside. It’s a strange realization because Ramsay didn’t make a sound and his expression remained the same. He kisses his shoulder again and unclasps his belt. He’s sure Ramsay can hear him and is perfectly aware of what’s going on, so Theon hopes that it’s enough to make him come to life and do something, anything… either run away or push back into his groin, rather than sit there, stapled to the mattress. His boxer shorts are damp in the front- why doesn’t it surprise him?- and it’s torture, pure agony as everything that’s presented to him is Ramsay’s pale, beautiful back and his round, pert backside. He pets it sheepishly, figuring after a while how to undo the belt and in a moment he tugs the boy’s corduroys meeting no resistance at all. Ramsay even shifts his hips to allow him access. When they’re finally reaching his ankles, he expects him to push them down but he doesn’t move at all. It’s funny that he’s wearing the most weird and wonderful pair of pink cotton underwear. He wants to laugh and make an indecent remark but Ramsay looks so innocent, so unspoiled in his little briefs that Theon’s heart fills with the strange desire to cocoon him into his arms and pet his pert ass until the boy will moan and keen like a bitch in heat.

His fingers uncurl and start touring Ramsay’s jutting hips, going purposelessly in circular motions, soothing, familiarizing. There’s a slight change in his breathing. It hitches in his throat, the exhales are shuddery, tricky. He’s pretending not to notice while Theon’s sneaky fingers pass the barrier of his white elastic band. The digits just travel lazily, an unstructured trajectory. For a while, Theon’s undecided whether to move them to the front or the back, then he realizes that Ramsay has closed his eyes and is biting his bottom lip in concentration. Seeing that, Theon pulls the underwear down altogether, exposing the boy’s round butt and leaking cock, peering out of a tuft of dark hair. That’s more like it… he considers. Ramsay looks like he can’t take it anymore, his eyes are screwed shut, his breathing erratic, and when Theon’s hand ghosts over his hardening cock, he sticks out his hips and pushes into thin air, searching for contact.

“So… are you sure you want this?” Theon is a bit unsure at how eager Ramsay suddenly has become. For all that he knows this could be an aftereffect of the weed, or an itch that the boy wants scratched as soon as possible. It could be meaningless.

He moans unintelligibly and grabs Theon’s hand, placing it on his erection, a hard rod of white flesh that leaks profusely on Theon’s sheets.

The words are stuck somewhere in his throat, shamefully and Theon can see him blushing hotly, trembling slightly whenever his hand circles the smaller member. For good measure he lets Ramsay feel how hard he’s become and how much larger he is. The boy’s eyes open in shock as he feels Theon’s flesh glide between his thighs, then settling in between his butt cheeks. It’s a pleasant swirl of colors that intermingle… the marble white of Ramsay’s skin, with red spots of arousal and embarrassment and Theon’s creamy golden tones, knowledgeably gliding over the unexplored territory of the boy’s skin.

Ramsay’s mouth is now open in a silent “Oh” as Theon rubs at his erection with expert fingers, gently and insistently at the same time, while his erection rubs rhythmically over his puckered hole and pale ass cheeks. To Theon, it all seems surreal… for all that he knows, this could be the best trip he’s ever had. He’s fully conscious however, but he wonders if the same can be said about Ramsay whose guttural moans and sharp intakes of breath seem to get out of his mouth mindlessly, uncaringly, as if he’s lost in the sensation and couldn’t bother with self control anymore.

He mouths at his neck sloppily, trying to gain access to his lips without using his hands. It’s a difficult task as Ramsay seems unaware of Theon’s plea. He finally kisses him, all probing, swirling tongue only to find him unmoving again. Ramsay’s tongue seems frozen, shy and unpracticed as Theon ravishes his mouth. The wet appendage makes obscene suction sounds as he attacks Ramsay’s with enthusiasm. The boy’s hips buck gently and surprisingly he turns towards Theon’s tempting mouth. Greyjoy’s mouth lets out a chuckle… Who would have guessed? He pulls Ramsay into him and briefly abandons his leaking cock because he wants to see those white burning eyes on him, wants to know what the other’s thinking, wants his approval. He cups the boy’s face delicately and smiling, he lets his fingers skitter over the sensitive lips. Ramsay finally opens his eyes, a shadow of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. It makes Theon happy, his heart swells and bursts, that’s how full it suddenly feels.

“You’re gorgeous, did you know?” It’s all that he can say, knowing very well that Ramsay’s trapped by his body and can’t turn his head away.

He looks sulky and aroused. His eyes are set into a deep glare that makes Theon show all his teeth in an arrogant smirk. The glacial eyes don’t leave Theon’s stormy blue ones. He is holding for dear life on his gaze as Theon’s hand slithers between their erections, rubbing them together. The hot feeling engulfs them and Theon tries to make him cum first because the boy looks like he needs it badly. He frots some more and his fingers spread the moisture from the head of his cock down to his length and rigid balls. Ramsay looks lost, as if struggling to cough a ball of fur or trying to hold in a sneeze. He’s cute like that, especially since his cock starts spurting hot liquid in his palm. Theon doesn’t stop massaging and rubbing their cocks together, ignoring Ramsay’s sensitive flesh until his cock bursts white seed all over their bellies.

Theon feels as if he ran a thousand miles. Ramsay is quiet and seems to have let that metaphorical sneeze out. He’s breathless, he tries to breathe obediently through his nose but  Theon puffs hot air on it, making him pant defensively.

His eyes don’t leave Theon’s. It’s unnerving. He seems to be waiting just like a panther for the prey to look elsewhere, just to satisfy his curiosity. It amuses Theon to no end.

“Don’t be shy, you can look…”

He pushes Ramsay’s head so he can now see Theon’s slender chest, his fragile hips adorned with tattoos and his considerably large cock now softening. However, his eyes move sheepishly between the large appendage and the words tattooed on the taut skin of his lower belly “We do not sow”. There’s sticky semen on the tattoo and it embarrasses Ramsay a bit.

His curiosity is so obvious that Theon indulges him by opening his thighs further to show him another tattoo. This time, it’s a Kraken, which artfully embraces his toned thighs. The white ink gives it a dreamlike, lacy aspect.

“May I?”

It’s the first time in what seems like hours that Ramsay speaks. His fingers dart timidly towards the tattoo, itching to feel and inspect it. Theon spreads his thighs further, sniggering as Ramsay dips his fingers by mistake in drying come.

“Suit yourself.”

The touch is fleeting, demure… it’s smooth like silk and Theon’s so sensitive there. He quivers as his skin fills with goose bumps. The hand grows bolder. Tracing the contours further and further, too close to Theon’s groin, making his erection twitch with frustration and tension, too much of an intimate touch to pretend there’s any self control left in him. He wants that pale hand on his manhood, on his balls, everywhere, but he resists the urge. Instead, when he deems that he can’t take it anymore, the tickling, teasing sensation of those clumsy fingers on the excruciatingly sensitive flesh, he grabs at Ramsay’s arm hurriedly, eliciting a pained moan from the boy’s lips.

The boy hisses as if burnt by the touch and it’s clear on his face that he’s in obvious discomfort.

His pale, soft arms with no visible veins hurt at the touch and Theon wonders for the briefest of seconds whether it was his brother that did that to him. Unlike his upper arms, the skin there is a white canvas, hiding deeper bruises, insidious strains.

He pulls the tender limbs to his lips and kisses them better, leaving Ramsay gasping in surprise. The gesture is protective and so tender and Ramsay turns his head downwards, examining the sheets between them in shame. It makes Theon want to embrace him and kiss him everywhere, that’s how sweet he is.

That’s it, he thinks to himself before he invades the other’s personal space, entangling their arms and legs until they can’t tell left from right and which belongs to whom. They’re sticky with sweat and cum and it feels so erotic that Theon lets him know by nibbling his earlobe and whispering to him.

“Are you going to stay silent after this? Hmm? I’m not going to ask any more stupid questions but whoever hurt you deserves to bleed to death in the most painful way.”

Ramsay swallows nervously and his huge, dark rimmed eyes blink owlishly, as if he doesn’t understand, as if he’s never thought of exacting revenge in his aggressor before.

Theon resumes his tender aftercare by kissing his nose and sweet lips, pulling the boy on top of him. He’s very heavy, he notes with quite a shock. The boy’s hair is looks mussed and tousled now, his back is hot and Theon dares pressing his fingers insistently in between his butt cheeks.

“Hush… Relax…” And Ramsay does eventually, because he feels his tight hole being gently massaged and his arse cheeks kneaded tenderly. Theon feels the boy’s rapid breath on his hair, in the hollow of his neck, his mouth wet and hot and panting. Soon, as the hard breathing turns into needy, successive grunts, Theon decides to push his fingers in there, to soak them some more and drown the obscene mewls that escaped Ramsay’s mouth. Heat pooled in his groin as he felt Ramsay’s cock hardening at his insistent touch.

He spreads his cheeks gently and slides one finger inside. The heat is maddening and Ramsay, out of desire or shame pushes his face further into his chest. It’s obvious how uncomfortable he feels by the way he squirms, yet still… he doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a thing, which spurs Theon’s eager fingers to delve deeper, inserting another one and sliding in and out with a bit of difficulty. Blindly, Theon searches for the boy’s erection and attacks the skin around his sensitive slit. His hole clenches and unclenches at the intrusive fingers and Ramsay now pushes desperately into Theon’s hand, his cock a mess as it bursts weakly in a small thread of cum, until he collapses crushing Theon altogether.

They don’t move for a while and Theon realizes with stupor that he feels quite safe with Ramsay’s heavy weight on him.

He cards his fingers through the sweaty hair at the back of the boy’s head in a gesture meant to encourage him to get off him, but Ramsay does not get it. It surprises Theon as he feels his arms encircling him tightly. Their embrace lasts until Ramsay’s body cools off and becomes too sticky with sweat and other juices. Theon’s satisfied. He has nothing to protest. He stretches painfully and goes back to spooning Ramsay’s bulky form.

“Should I take you home tonight?”

Ramsay says nothing but Theon expects him to feel offhandedly insulted at the reminder. Instead, he exhales mulishly over the pillow.

“You don’t even know where I live.” He finally replies in a surly voice.

“You could stay, though… I really want you to stay.” And Ramsay relaxes into his arms again.

"I'll stay. I like it here."

~~~

It’s been weeks since they met and before doing anything that Ramsay might regret, Theon made sure to teach him how to kiss properly, how to allow his hand to be held, how to part his legs and make room for Theon’s searching fingers and his probing tongue. After every session, Ramsay was a silent, quivering mess, relaxed and trusting. Of course, things got difficult whenever Theon tried to mention the bruises on his arms or even tenderly massaged them. Ramsay just looked down at his feet and stood there silent, accepting any kindness but never properly thanking him for it. He knew that they were already in too deep with each other. He just turned seventeen and despite being practically a child, Ramsay insisted on spending more and more time with him instead of going to classes and doing his homework. He became more and more demanding of Theon’s time, his huge, glacial eyes whispering silent _I love yous_  whenever Theon allowed him to get his own way. He realized he hasn't thought about the Starks at all. 

 

~~~

 

One day, though… when Theon found Ramsay unexpectedly in his house, crying and shivering with every fiber of his body, he knew that he could not let go of him, not ever. He found him covered in someone else’s blood and muck and the desire to keep him safe from harm was overpowered his judgement. The boy became too much of a cherished thing, became something that Theon didn't want to lose.

“I love you. Don't send me away,” he said through sharp breaths. It comes across as a plea but Theon's brain registers it as a command. 

“I love you too, precious… Come here. I won't ever let you go.” Ramsay does so, throws himself into Theon’s neck to grope and hide his tears and runny nose. A sharp, kitchen knife slipped out of his fingers, dirty and sticky with drying blood.

Theon still doesn't know whether he should protect Ramsay from himself or from the world. There's no turning back, now.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a note and tell me your opinion!  
> :)


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